Big load of assholes at this pub. “What’re you taking pictures for?” “I blog about pubs. I’ll write this visit up in a day or two.” “I don’t recall authorising this. Let me see that camera.” Finishing my beer in one, I replied, “I don’t think that’s going to fucking happen, buddy,” and then the dude reached under the bar like he was going for a bat or something as I left (in hindsight, he was probably just unlatching one of his in-bred siblings from his diseased tool so he could follow me out). Outside, it was like something out of Dawn of the Dead (or, more accurately, Dawn of the Tards): the town must have an institution near the cross as the place was crawling with freaks. I don’t think I’ll travel through Aston any more.
I came to the pub on purpose, in fact, with such purpose that even missing my trail and going an extra couple miles didn’t deter me. It was a hot afternoon for a change and the fields in this part of the Thames Valley were especially humid…absolutely lovely for someone from the steaming southern US. The only skidmark on the route was the collection of steaming turds I dealt with, however briefly, in Aston.
Leaving to the west, I arrived in Bampton about 12 minutes later. The roadway is narrow and there’s no verge but not enough traffic to worry about. The Morris Clown emerged soon after, and then the Horseshoe was a delight. The final leg was difficult with all that beer sloshing around and I forgot there is a little climb into Littleworth to get to the A420. Still, a successful trip despite the dickheads…hooray.